


Things Unsaid Lead to Lives Unlived

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I Also Love First Time Fics So Here's Another One, I Love Smut I Can't Help It, John is Not Okay, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Wedding, Sherlock Is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: Three weeks after the wedding, John sees Sherlock again. Emotional chaos ensues.





	Things Unsaid Lead to Lives Unlived

“Married life becomes you, John.” He leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers beneath his chin and sends me a brief, tight-lipped smile. “You’ve gained at least four pounds in your honeymoon alone.”

It stings. Who does he think he’s talking to – Mycroft?

He’s still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking unkempt, worn-out, and thinner than I remember him. I was going to ask if he’s alright, but now I look away from him and at the wall instead, feeling my jaw tensing up.

_It’s good to see you too, old friend._

I’m standing in the empty space in front of the fireplace where  _my_  chair used to be. It's been only three weeks and he's already gotten rid of it. Why did I think this was a good idea? Why didn’t I stay with my pregnant wife to have breakfast in bed? Why do I miss him so much when he’s being such an obnoxious  _prick_  all the time?

I want to scream all of these questions and a few more in his face, maybe rounding the whole thing off with a few choice swear words, but instead I ask: “Where’s my chair?”

_»My« chair. I sound like an idiot._

He doesn’t answer. I listen to the familiar noises of Baker Street filtering through the old, badly insulated windows – the bustle of people going about their days, police sirens, the occasional bird twittering on the roof.

After the wedding speech, I thought we were okay. I was wrong, apparently. He’s not going to change.

He is silent for so long that eventually I have to turn back to him to see if he’s still there.

His face looks impassive, but his eyes are boring into me with such intensity that for a moment I wonder why I can’t actually  _feel_  his gaze entering my skull through flesh and bone.

“It was blocking my view to the kitchen,” he says.

“Okay.”

I breathe out slowly, trying hard to not let it affect me and failing miserably.

“I just stopped by to say hello, but you seem to be… busy, so I’ll just leave.”

_Lame, John._

He inclines his head, his eyes sparkling at me beneath a fringe of unruly curls.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks. “We can get you the clients' chair.”

\---

“How’s Mary? Is the pregnancy going fine?”

Oh, we’re talking about Mary now. And the baby. Of course.

_Never mind me._

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Me visiting once in a blue moon, having tea and talking about my family, my boring work, my boring  _life_?

Before I married Mary, and maybe only because she encouraged me to talk to him, it seemed as if we could go back to how it was before he went away, but when he left the reception early and without saying goodbye, I stopped hoping. So much for  _I’ll prove it to you for the rest of my life_ , or whatever soppy thing it was that he said. That was not  _Sherlock_. I should have known.

I'm still working at the clinic. I'll have to go back there tomorrow morning, and everything will be dull, dull,  _dull_.

It causes me physical pain to imagine my future like that – no more going on cases with him, no more coming home to this place, having takeaway at a crammed kitchen table and putting the leftovers in the fridge next to the amputated feet. No more falling asleep in my chair while he keeps thinking in his, no more waking up to a blanket being put around my shoulders in the middle of the night. No more tantrums over boredom, no more insults and soft, guilty looks afterwards. No more Sherlock.

And one day someone will call, maybe Mrs Hudson, or maybe Lestrade, and they will tell me that this time it’s real, it happened, _he’s been injured, John, he’s dead, I’m so sorry, John, are you alright?_

I will not have been there when it happened, and it will haunt me for the rest of my pathetic life.

“She’s fine, thanks,” I answer. “We’re getting another ultrasound tomorrow.”

There’s a huge lump in my throat.

He smiles, and it looks a little more genuine now.

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Sherlock.”

I have to ask him. I have to ask him again because he doesn’t know that it all started when he did it, and that it’s still  _killing_  me.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about--- about your plan?”

“John…” He sighs heavily. “How many times do I have to say sorry?”

“Oh, I don’t know –  _how_ many days would you say you were gone?” I snap, anger rising up inside of me. “That might be the number you’re looking for.”

He gets up in that smooth way of his and folds his arms.

“It wasn’t exactly a holiday, John, so forgive me if I forgot to count. I’m sorry – I _really_ am. But if you can’t let it go, you… Maybe you should go home then.”

I jump up, my hands balling into fists without me telling them to, and I’m satisfied to see him flinch a little.

It’s not him sending me away that makes me lose it. It’s him saying “home”. “Home”, that’s  _here_. Where Mary is is not home. I wanted it to be – I tried  _everything_ , I swear to God, but it isn’t, and it won’t ever be.

Not even the baby will change that fact. I’ve never felt guiltier in my whole life, but I know that it’s either leaving them or slowly going insane. I know I should stay for the sake of my child – my moral compass is not broken. And Mary is sweet, and smart, and beautiful. We work. But I can’t do it. I want something else, even if that means I’ll probably end up alone in the end.

Why do I want this?

_Why him?_

I’m furious with myself, with him, with the world.

“You fucking pretentious  _git_ ,” I say, and then I pounce.

\---

Our struggle takes us halfway through the living room and towards the door. Even in my rage I manage to realise that it’s good that it’s closed – otherwise I might have thrown him down the stairs by accident.

He doesn’t really fight back, but just tries to stay upright and keep his face out of reach of my hands, which makes me even angrier. I need an outlet, and beating up a defenceless man will not provide me with one.

I grab the lapels of his dressing gown. Although he looks rumpled, he smells wonderfully sweet and familiar, and I revel in his scent even as I try to tackle him to the ground.

“If you’d come back  _one_  day earlier, you fucking arsehole!  _One_  fucking day! If you’d told me all along, I could have--- I’d have waited for---  _Fuck!_ ”

I’m so mad that I can’t even speak. My hands are twisting in his clothes, shaking him, making his teeth clack together, and I know that if he doesn’t stop me, I will hurt him. I will hurt him again, because there are no words in the world that could describe my pain, my disappointment, my  _heartache_.

“God, I  _hate_  you so much,” I spit with venom, my face only inches from his.

His gaze meets mine, then jumps to my lips and back again, and a familiar, forbidden sensation stirs in my stomach, mingling with the blind fury that’s still causing havoc inside of me.

“You don’t,” is all he says, his voice hoarse and breathless.

_God help me, I’ll kill him._

“ _Fine!_ ” I snarl at him. “Go ahead, then. If you’re so smart.  _Deduce_  me.”

I look up at him and open my heart, making it show on my face. He can see it all if he wishes to.

_Nights spent lying awake, all alone, his bloody face in front of me, his unseeing eyes glowing in the stark, glaring light of the most horrible day of my life. Screaming into my pillow until I can’t breathe._

_Hungover mornings, being sick in my bed, lying in my own filth, sobbing for someone to come and take the pain away._

_Laughing with Mary, but seeing him in front of me, the hole he's left too big to ever be filled by anything, anyone._

_Listening to his wedding speech, realising that it was a mistake. The worst mistake._

_My wedding night. Dreaming about him, about him doing things to me, unspeakable things, so good, oh God. Waking up to soiled pyjamas and a hollow feeling in my stomach. Cleaning myself up without waking Mary. Guilt. Missed chances._

_Honeymoon. Lying on the beach, watching people stroll past. His voice in my head, deducing each and every one of them._

_Dreaming about him again, every night, about him falling, about him dead, about him inside of me. Every night._

_On the tube, my stomach in a knot, my heart thumping, seeing Sherlock again all that’s on my mind. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

_Cold eyes, fake smile._

_Hurt. Hurt. Hurt…_

His eyes flicker rapidly, and I know he’s synchronising my expression with data from his mind palace. To an outsider, we’d look like two lunatics right now.

Well.

We are.

It takes him about thirty seconds to go through all his files, and then everything happens so fast that I can’t react.

He grabs my arms, turns us around, and throws the two of us against the door with one fluid, powerful motion. All the air is knocked from my lungs when my back hits the hard wood, and in a crazy out-of-body experience that can’t last more than the fraction of a second, I worry about sustaining a concussion. His hand prevents that by shooting up to cradle the back of my head and thus cushioning the impact, and before I can breathe again, he is upon me, one of his hands on my throat, the other pushing at my chest.

“ _No!_ ” he growls, and I feel the vibrations of his voice deep down inside of me, shaking my core. “You’re  _not_  doing this now. Not now.”

“ _Sher_ \---” I start, but he interrupts me before I can finish by tightening his grip on my neck.

“How dare you show me this?  _You’re_  the one who’s moved on! How am I supposed to react?” he hisses at me, his thumb pressing into my jugular. “How  _dare_  you?”

I feel lightheaded, and not only because he’s slowly strangling me. This has gone wildly out of hand, and I’m not sure that what’s left of our friendship will survive it.

“ _You_  left---  _me_ , Sherlock!” I pant and flail to get a grip on him. I’ll faint if he keeps it up. “S---  _stop!_ ” I gasp. “Please!”

He squeezes his eyes shut and a short, dry sob fights its way out of his chest. He lets go of my throat, but his other hand stays on my sternum and keeps me pressed against the door.

I cough and shake my head to get rid of the fog clouding my brain, and he opens his lids again to glare at me. His body is so close that I can feel every quick breath he takes.

“Would you have told me two years ago?  _Hm, John?_  If you had known what I was going to do, would you have told me how you feel? Why didn’t you tell me before you got  _married_? Why the  _fuck_  didn’t you tell me when you thought we’d be blown up in that train car?”

Hearing him swear like that is so unusual that my surprise almost stops me from catching his meaning – but only  _almost_.

“ _What???_  You did it to get me to--- to  _admit_  something? I thought we’d die there! What kind of person  _are_  you?”

I finally manage to catch hold of him again and we wrestle with each other for a moment, both of us trying to disentangle ourselves from the other’s grasp. It only results in me being pressed even more tightly against the door, because he doesn’t let go, and I can’t bring myself to use my close-combat training to try and get an advantage over him. I’m scared of hurting him, but I’ve also seen him fight before and I’m not sure I want to find out what it feels like to be on the receiving end when he’s out of control.

“I stayed with  _you_ , didn’t I? You told me to go to Mary, and I fucking  _stayed_  with you!”

“There was no time to run, you said so yourself!”

“I would have stayed anyway! You  _idiot!_ ”

My voice breaks and I look away, embarrassed by this blatant show of emotions. This is all wrong.

“What do you fucking  _want_  from me, John?” he shouts, his fingers digging into my side, my chest, hurting me. “What do you expect? What became of John  _I’m-not-his-date_  Watson? Do you want me to take you away from your wife and child now? After everything I did to be a  _friend_  to both of you? Do you want me to be the one to blame?  _Tell me!_ ”

I’m close to hyperventilating.

He’s right. What did I expect? A miracle? He’s Sherlock Holmes, the one and fucking only, but he can’t turn back time, and neither can I. But he started it. He never trusted me. If he had, nothing of this would have happened.

“I want my life back!” I hear myself bark at him without meaning to.

He laughs bitterly and turns his head away.

“I don’t have what you want, then.”

We’re both panting, but his hands are no longer bruising me and his tone is calmer, kinder all of a sudden. And sadder.

“You  _are_  my life,” I croak, my lips trembling.

_Fuck. I’m going to cry._

“ _John._ ”

He inhales loudly, and it looks as if he wanted to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just turns and dips his head until he can lean his forehead against mine, and we stay there, still holding on to each other’s clothes, still thrumming with the aftershocks of our fight.

A few solitary tears make their way down my cheeks, but I manage to hold most of it inside.

As the minutes pass us by soundlessly, I take him in, anything I can get, really – the way he smells, his warm breath against my face and neck, his hair tickling my temples, his solid body next to mine, all sinews and muscles and bones. I want it all, and I want  _more_ , and I’m so confused by these feelings and so scared that I’ve lost him forever.

I don’t know how long we keep standing there like that. It might be five minutes – it might be an hour. It feels as if the world has stopped inside this room, everything remaining static and waiting for the blow to come.

Suddenly the pressure of his body against mine increases, and I realise that he’s leaning against me with his full weight now, and then his arms come up and he props his elbows against the door to the left and right of my head, effectively caging me in himself. I feel intimidated – and safer than I’ve ever felt before. I yearn to close my eyes and stay like this forever, in this place where the world outside doesn’t count and it’s only him, all around me.

"Do you love her, John?"

The level tone of his voice doesn't betray the enormity of the question, but I'm sure he's working really hard to make himself sound like that. My hand is resting on his abdomen and his aorta is throbbing against my palm, telling me that his heart is still beating fast - too fast for this apparent calm to be true.

"I do," I answer because I want to tell him the truth, "but not like--- like I love you."

_Oh God, I said it._

He tenses up ever so slightly.

"Elaborate."

I swallow, knowing that the next words I say might be the most important ones in my life.

"You were gone. You took all the light out of my life when you jumped. I almost died, Sherlock. She helped me not to. I'm sorry - I'm not trying to blame it on you; that's just what it was. You were being an insensitive prick when you came back, and I was so hurt... I know I should have talked to you about it, but I never dared to imagine we could---"

I stop and take a deep breath, readying myself for what's going to come out of my mouth next.

"Listen. I'm not attracted to men, Sherlock, and I always thought  _you_  were not attracted to  _anyone_. I didn't want to admit it to myself, to you... So I went for second best."

I’m such an arsehole. She deserves so much better than that.

He doesn't reply, and his silence makes me uneasy, so I fill it with more talking, letting the words come as they please because when, if not now?

"You,  _this_  - it's all I've ever wanted, Sherlock. I know it more than ever, now that I've had to live without it for a while. Forgive me for not telling you sooner. I should have been braver before it was too late."

A warm sigh puffs against my face, and finally he seems to be ready to answer.

"John... Forgive me for leaving you the way I did. I had to. But I should have found a way to let you know. I took you for granted, which is the most ignorant thing I've ever done. I never meant for you to see it. I had sent you away… I never wanted to hurt you."

“Sherlock.”

New tears constrict my voice and I fight them back. Even though I know it was all a haux, it still haunts me. I’ve never felt more powerless than when I saw him fall, fall…

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you felt like that.”

“I didn’t know it either, then.”

He lightly butts his head against mine.

“Know this, John… I’ve been thinking about you and me for a very long time. But I’m not… like one of your girlfriends. If we start now, I won’t be able to stop. I won’t  _ever_  stop. Make sure you really want that.“

I shiver. Whatever that means, I want it. I want it all.

"It's wrong; you know it is," he continues. "You’re going to be a father. Your responsibilities are not going to disappear just like that."

I put my hands on the small of his back, feeling his heat seep through two layers of clothing and into the skin of my palms. I know that. I have no idea what I’m going to do about it, but I know it very well.

He brushes my nose with his, only lightly, but the contact leaves my nerve endings sizzling with sensitivity. Our foreheads are still pressed against each other, so I can't see his eyes. Somehow, this makes the moment both less  _and_  more intimate, and I breathe him in deeply and feel myself grow hard.

_Oh God._

He can feel it, too. He hums lowly and rubs his leg against my crotch, almost causing my knees to give way.

_Oh GOD._

"She's my friend, too, John. It took me a while to make myself feel that way, so this is not as easy for me as it might seem."

I know.  _I know._  

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry I've let it come this far."

He pulls at my jumper, digs his fingertips into my flesh through the thick cotton.

“I feel bad for her, but I still want what’s  _mine_ ,” he says, his voice so dark and harsh that I know I should be alarmed, but I’m not – I’m turned on beyond belief.

“Yes,” I choke out. “ _Always_.”

His fingers go slack again.

“There’s one more thing, John.”

“Wh---“ I have to clear my throat. “What?”

"I'm not going to stop being me just because we fuck. Are you sure you can deal with that?" 

His leg keeps distracting me, and when did he start saying  _fuck_  so nonchalantly?

I half-groan, half-chuckle weakly, my hands on his hips now, fighting to steady myself against the onslaught of arousal that’s threatening to leave me incoherent. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation here, now, with me completely wrecked with lust and him not far behind, judging from his heavy breathing and husky tone.

“I  _know_  who you are, you idiot” I whisper. “And if you’re trying to change my mind, you’re doing a fucking  _lousy_  job.”

I emphasise my point by slowly grinding my erection against the strong muscle of his thigh, and his breath hitches.

"Say you don't want this and I'll stop and leave and never come back, Sherlock..." I tell him, moving my fingers to the nape of his neck to caress the soft skin there.

He rewards me with a beautiful whole-body shudder and tilts his head so that his lips almost touch mine.

“This won’t be an affair,” he rumbles against my mouth, his breath and his words slipping right between my parted lips, and I ask myself if it’s possible to come from being talked to alone. Right now it really feels like it.

“ _No_ ,” I gasp, almost tasting him but not quite there yet, and suddenly I feel him open his mouth a little wider and mirror him immediately, eager for more contact.

_You’ll never be second best, Sherlock._

Our tongues meet halfway, only the tips at first, nudging each other tentatively, but then he groans and deepens the kiss, finally letting me feel his luscious lips, his mouth hot and slick and open, all mine to explore. It’s like falling and drowning and coming home, like sinking into a bath of cool water after a hot and humid day, like finally resting after the longest walk of my life.

“ _Mmhhh_ ,” he moans when I slide one of my hands into his hair to lightly pull at the thick curls coiling around my fingers. I want to feel him closer, feel everything about him.

He licks into my mouth, again and again, slowly and thoroughly, and puts his hands on my arse to knead my flesh and pull me up against his body. He is rock-hard, his thin pyjamas doing nothing to hide that, and I have to get up on my toes to push myself against him. Our height difference makes it difficult to get the kind of friction I want.

He grumbles and smiles against my mouth, helping me by lifting me up against the door as if I weighed nothing at all and rolling his hips once, teasingly, before lowering my feet to the floor again.

“ _Hmpf!_ ” I huff into our kiss.

I should feel humiliated, but I really don’t, which is extremely irritating and absolutely alright at the same time.

“Oh… If this wasn’t the first time, I’d feel tempted to pick you up and take you _right_ against this door…” he mumbles and bites down on my bottom lip.  

I have to pull away to catch my breath, the sensory overload almost too much for me. "Oh  _God_..."

There are many thoughts shooting through my head right now, most of them too fast and random to be of any use, but one of them sticks out: Sherlock  _is_ , in fact, a sexual being. I never really dared to ponder over this possibility, but hearing him use such language and feeling him do these  _things_  to me is more than I could have ever imagined.

I have no idea what I’m doing, but if he wanted to “take me” right now, I’d be okay with it.

He grins down at me, already looking perfectly debauched with his mussed hair, heavy lids, and wet, kiss-swollen lips. 

“We… we shouldn’t do this before you’ve talked to---“ he starts, and I can tell that he has to force himself to say it. His fingers are still on my arse, still stroking slowly, and his cock is straining against my abdomen, more than ready to go.

I shake my head and pull him back into another kiss. His lips are so full and soft, much softer than I expected a man’s lips to be, and I want to learn more about him, about his body, about what he likes, and about what I have to do to make him lose control. I want it so much.

“I can’t leave you now,” I whisper. “ _Please_  don’t make me…”

He hesitates, and I put my face against his neck to tongue-kiss the tender skin beneath his ear.

“ _Ah_ ,” he says.

I know I’m making this easy for myself, maybe too easy, but I can’t bring myself to let go. Of course it would be fairer to wait. Of course it would. But I can’t.

“Don’t you want me?” I murmur into his ear, my tongue flicking his earlobe.

He moans and pushes into the touch, and I file the reaction away for later.  _Ears. Noted._

"You render me incapable of listening to reason, John Watson," he rumbles, sounding both annoyed and aroused, and gives my left buttock a gentle squeeze. Then he takes my hand and turns around, pulling me with him. “Even though you don’t play fair. Bedroom. Come.”

\---

The first thing I notice when we enter his room is that it smells so strongly of  _Sherlock_  that it actually makes me dizzy to be here. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone as much as I want him. Why didn’t I realise that earlier?

The second thing is my chair standing between the door and the wardrobe, right underneath the window. A grey jumper is hanging over the left armrest, and it’s not Sherlock’s, because he doesn’t even  _own_  jumpers.

“You… left that here,” he says, looking and sounding like a really guilty boy all of a sudden.

I smirk.

“And you were going to give it back, of course.”

He clears his throat, his hands going into his pockets and his shoulders hunching upwards. I grin at him, but he only scowls.

"Sit down," I say softly, but he doesn't react right away.

He stares at me, his pupils blown to the point that his irises look black, and in his features there's nothing left of the facade of Sherlock, the inhuman deduction machine. It's raw, this look, raw and open and real.

"Please sit down," I repeat, and this time he complies.

"What did you do, sitting here?" I ask him and kneel down in front of him.

He shrugs.

"Sleep," he mouths, barely audibly, and I sense that that's not all.

His hand closes around a portion of my jumper in an unconscious, possessive gesture, but when he notices me looking at it, he lets go immediately. His legs open when I slide between them, my hands on his knees now, and his breathing accelerates.

I bite my lip, fully aware of his eyes on my mouth, and send him a tender half-smile.

"What else did you do?" I press on, operating purely on instinct now.

I run my thumbs along the insides of his thighs in slow circles, edging ever higher, and he surprises me by moaning lowly and putting his hand between his legs, rubbing himself through his pyjamas.

"This," he breathes, and I utter a small moan of my own when he takes the jumper with his other hand and puts it against his face to rub his cheek against it and inhale my scent.

_God! Excuse me while I come in my pants._

I clench my teeth and try to breathe evenly, my eyes jumping back and forth between his face and his groin. His mouth is slack, sometimes showing a bit of tongue and teeth, and his hand is teasing his cock with light strokes and squeezes which look like they’re not enough  _by far_.

Oh  _fuck_.

“Show me,” I tell him. “Please… I want to see.”

The thought of him pleasuring himself in this chair, his face buried in my jumper, is both incredibly hot and unbearably sad, because although he hasn’t mentioned it yet, it must have been hell for him to watch me propose and get married and start a new life without him. As far as hurting each other goes, we are on a par.

I want to apologise, but I don’t want him to feel pitied, so I don’t.

I watch him when he lifts the waistband of his trousers and wiggles his hips to push them down his legs as far as possible with me being located between them, and then he leans back again and lets me help him to get them off the rest of the way. 

Finally I can  _look_ , and I take my time doing so. His hips are slender, his hipbones almost too sharp, making me wonder if he’s eating enough. His skin is pale and smooth, dusted with small clusters of honey-coloured freckles here and there, and his hard cock is jutting up from a nest of dark curls, more pink than the rest of him, long and gracefully curved, the head already glistening with moisture.

“You’re  _beautiful_ ,” I blurt out, and he smiles for the first time since we came into the room.

“ _This_  is what I did,” he repeats, his eyes fixed on mine, and then he slides them shut and bares his throat, taking the control of the situation away from me by adding: “Watch me…”

It is barely a sigh, but his words reverberate in my head, making me feel weak, and I watch him wrap his fingers around his shaft, pulling gently. I want to put my face between his legs and lick, smell, get his essence all over me, but I’m transfixed by the agonisingly slow strokes he’s now administering to himself, panting shallowly and writhing a little whenever something feels  _really_  good.

“Oh God,  _Sherlock_ ,” I gasp, digging my fingers into his thighs to ground myself and helplessly bucking up into thin air, my body so high on hormones that it doesn’t know how to deal with it anymore. My cock rubs against the fly of my jeans from the inside, but that only leaves me even more frustrated. I desperately need release, and at the same time I don’t want it to stop. Ever.

He hums and presses my jumper against his chest and mouth, groaning into it when he speeds up his movements. He’s leaking continuously now, and I can see every tremor running through him as he gets closer and closer to the edge. His bollocks are drawn up high and tight against his body already, and I want to put my mouth there to taste his musk.

I’ve never felt aroused by another man’s body before, not even in my army days, and back then the other blokes’ bodies were the only thing within reach for weeks. A lot of them made do with that, but I couldn’t, didn’t want to – to me, it was an impossible notion.

Now everything I can think about is what his penis would, no,  _will_  feel like in my mouth and whether he will say my name when he comes down my throat.

" _Fuck_ ," he suddenly groans and thrusts upwards into his fist, his whole lower body rising from the chair and his legs tensing up when he presses his heels into the floor. "Ah,  _John_ \---"

"Oh  _God_  yes, come for me," I pant and bend forwards to make my fantasy come true.

He moans when I wrap my lips around his cock and suck, going down as deep as I can and then licking him with the flat of my tongue on the way up, again and again and  _again_. It’s so good. He tastes sharp and bitter and salty, and his wet, silky hardness sliding in and out of my mouth is the most erotic thing I have ever felt. He's pulsing and twitching inside of me, stiffening even further the longer it lasts, and then I feel more than see him abandoning my jumper in favour of putting his hand on my head and carding his fingers through my hair.

I growl deep inside my chest, aware that the sound will vibrate all around him. I want to make it amazing for him.

"Ah,  _yes!_ " he pants, his fingers still wrapped around his base and stroking the part of himself that won't fit into my mouth, his other hand tightening its grip on my hair. "John, I'm  _coming_... oh God I--- oh,  _oh_ , John!"

He folds in on himself when the sensation hits him, his body convulsing around me, and it's the most beautiful thing to witness.

" _Johnnn_..."

There it is, my name, tumbling out of him with the waves of his orgasm, and the fact that I have to concentrate on not choking on the hot fluid suddenly filling my mouth is the only reason why I don't climax with him, untouched and right into my clothes.

I suck and swallow blindly, not knowing whether I'm doing it right. I’m just trying to lead him through the shocks wrecking his body, slowing my pace as I feel him gradually come down from the peak.

When his fingers loosen their hold on my head, I gently let him slip from my mouth, cleaning him up with a few last swipes of my tongue, careful not to go too hard on his over-sensitive nerves. He leans back again when I'm finished, giving me room to straighten up and look at his face.

He's a sight to behold: Flushed cheekbones, half-closed eyes, lips parted in a blissful smile. He looks about ten years younger.

"God, you're absolutely  _gorgeous_ ," I tell him, and it feels weird because before today, I’ve never even considered that a man could be beautiful to me.

He grins softly and shakes his head, signalling me that he can’t speak yet, and I rub his thighs to help him calm down.

“You’re lovely… The  _sounds_  you make, Sherlock… God…”

He's drawing long, shuddering breaths, his deep voice sometimes catching on the exhale, and I don't think anything could ever sound more sensual. I wish I could see more of him, more nakedness, more secrets that he doesn't show to anybody but me. I wish I could make him moan and pant and shatter to pieces in front of me all over again  _right now_.

“I’m not twenty anymore,” he wheezes, sounding amused.

He’s deduced me, the fucking show-off.

I laugh.

Then I remember that my own cock is still very hard and still very much trapped in the prison of my jeans, and that him demonstrating his skills like that is  _not_  helping my situation. Quite the opposite.

_What is wrong with me?_

His eyes tell me that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and when he licks his lips and puts his hands around my face to stroke his thumbs along my cheekbones, I simply melt into his touch.

“Bed,” he drawls. “ _Now._ ”

\---

_Pop._

_Pop._

Why did I choose a pair of jeans that fastens with buttons this morning? Why?

“ _Sherlock_ …”

“Ssshhhh…”

_Pop._

He keeps brushing and prodding my erection as he opens the buttons one by one, and if he isn’t more careful, this will be over much too soon.

I bite the insides of my cheeks to distract myself with a bit of pain, and then, finally,  _finally_ \---

_Pop._

_Thank God._  Only one obstacle left, then.

“Ssshhhh,” he whispers again and pulls the waistband of my boxers down a little. He avoids touching me as he does so, bless him. “Mmhhh, you’re  _so_  hard…”

_Stop! If he starts talking dirty now, I’ll definitely come in one minute flat._

He pulls my jeans and boxers down my legs in one go and throws them to the side, and I sigh heavily when my cock is freed at last.

I’m lying on his bed completely naked now, and he discards his dressing gown and t-shirt before he lies down next to me and rubs himself against my side like a lazy cat. This first full contact leaves me trembling. His body is muscular, hard even, so unlike a woman’s, and I’m amazed that this feels as wonderful as it does.

He props himself up on one elbow, his free hand roaming over my chest in random patterns.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So ready…”

His fingers trail down my body, over my abdomen, dipping into my navel, and then he strokes his palm lightly down the underside of my cock. My whole lower body jerks into the tiny touch, and I feel the tell-tale tug of orgasm starting in my loins.

“Fuck,  _fuck_ … be careful,” I pant.

He utters a drawn-out hum, apparently savouring my arousal, and the sound only adds to my despair.

“Sherlock, I--- I’ll come any second…  _God_ , this is embarrassing…” I gasp and grimace. “ _Fuck_ …”

His hand stops touching me, but lingers in mid-air, right above my groin, and I feel its heat all over me.

“How do you want this?” he asks lowly, gazing at me with a look of hunger in his blazing eyes. “My mouth? My hand? Anything, John.”

I can’t think straight anymore. He’s so sexy. I can’t believe this is happening to me.

“Surprise me,” I answer, feeling a bit bold and also too overwhelmed to decide for myself.

He inhales shakily.

“Close your eyes.”

I obey without thinking twice.

The bed dips as he rummages in his bedside table – or at least it sounds like that. Then there’s something I’ve heard before – a tube being clacked open and something squelchy being squeezed out of it. Lube.  _Okay._  My heart starts to beat even faster. He moves around again, brushing my side with his body, and for a second I wonder what’s gotten into me – usually _I’m_ the dominant one when it comes to sex, but right now I’d let him do  _anything_  to me. I don’t recognise myself anymore.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his mouth suddenly right next to my ear.

I shiver.

“Yes,” I breathe.

He kisses me on the lips, very tenderly, and then moves between my legs. I grip the pillow my head is resting on and brace myself for whatever’s coming. I  _do_  trust him. It will be alright. 

“Spread your legs a little,” he tells me and nudges the back of my knee.

I do as he says and open my thighs, and then his index finger is there, wet and warm, right between my buttocks, and I almost cry out with surprise and pleasure.

“May I?” he asks, panting a little, and I nod and press my lips together to stop myself from making any more silly sounds.

He circles my opening, spreading the lubricant on his fingers all around it, and just when I think I can’t take the teasing anymore, he pushes in.

“ _Oh_  God,” I groan, my voice sounding oddly deep to my own ears, and he moans lowly in return.

“ _Yes_ , John…”

He twists his hand, going deeper ever so slowly, and I feel my body stretch to accommodate the intrusion, a burning wave of pleasure-pain flowing through me. It makes it hard to breathe.

I try to get some leverage by pressing my heels into the mattress, mostly just to calm myself, but he uses his free hand to push my thighs even higher up against my body, opening me up to his ministrations, and my feet end up in the air again. I feel exposed.

“Stay like that,” he orders quietly. “You can let go, John… Leave it all to me…”

I open my eyes again to find him kneeling at the foot of the bed, his chest and shoulders flushed with pink and his hair a complete mess. He notices me looking and smiles, pulling his finger out and then thrusting it back in carefully.

Oh, oh,  _oh_. 

“Let me in…” he whispers. “I’ll make you feel so good…”

Somehow seeing his face like that, his expression so aroused and still so focused, makes it easier to relax, and the next breath I exhale allows him to go a bit deeper.

“ _Mmhhh_ …”

This is the  _best_  thing anybody’s ever done to me in bed.

“I haven’t even started yet,” he mutters and lifts one eyebrow, moving his hand steadily now, and my cock twitches as if to say  _are you kidding?_

“Stop---  _ah!_  Stop ded--- _ucing_  me in bed, you f---“

“ _Yes?_ ” he interrupts me and crooks his finger to find my prostate with uncanny precision. 

I throw my head back, my eyes snapping shut. “ _Hnnggghhhh…_ ”

This is  _definitely_  the most embarrassing grunt yet. And I don’t give a toss.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he growls. “Let me see what it does to you, John… Let me hear it…”

He pulls out almost entirely and I’m about to protest when he comes back again, this time with his middle finger joining the proceedings.

“ _Fuck!_ ” I hiss, feeling my body accept him more readily now, allowing him in up to his knuckles with ease.

There’s almost no pain left when he starts moving again, and this time the feeling is so much more intense, even though I wouldn’t have thought that possible only a minute ago. I’m leaking an obscene amount of precome, but I only notice that when the thick drops start to run down my hip, tickling me. I feel full, the pressure almost too much, but even as I gasp for air and writhe against his hand I know I can’t wait for the real thing, next time,  _soon_.

“ _Hmm_ , yes, John… I wish it was my cock inside of you now… I’m getting hard again doing this to you…”

He’s doing it on purpose.

It’s a bit unnerving to be like an open book full of not-so-secret fantasies, but I can’t reply. I’m completely out of my mind, and he picks up the pace of his thrusts and starts brushing that incredible place inside of me again. My hands are clawing at the bedsheet; I’m so desperate for something to hold onto.

“I’m going to make you come now,” he breathes, and I just sob in response. It already feels so good that I’m not even sure I can take anything more.

He does something that involves his thumb and my perineum, never ceasing to piston his fingers in and out of me, and my erection pulses against my abdomen, having, it seems, developed a life of its own. I’ve never had an orgasm without my cock being touched, but I assume that that’s going to change very soon.

“ _Look_ at yourself,” he moans, sounding as far gone as I feel, and I force myself to raise my head and squint down at where he’s kneeling.

I see my own body, bent almost in half, covered in streaks of slick, transparent fluid. My cock, throbbing and _so_ red, redder than I’ve ever seen it before. His face, contorted with pride and arousal. And his hand, moving between his own legs in the same rhythm he’s using on me.

That’s what does it in the end.

I lock eyes with him as I climax, feeling my cock jerk violently and my release spurt out and land on my chest, and only after the first ejaculation does the feeling really catch up with me. And _what_ a feeling it is. It sweeps me off my feet.

I cry out and begin to shake from head to toe, coming all over myself several times in rapid succession, and he slows the thrusting motion of his fingers, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Tell me... if it gets too much,” he presses out through clenched teeth and just holds the pads of his fingers against my prostate, circling them ever so lightly over the sensitive spot.

I can tell he’s still stroking himself, but I can’t focus on anything, because the orgasm doesn’t end.

It just doesn’t.

It’s like I’m stuck at the peak of my high, floating there even when my cock is spent and there’s not a single drop left inside of me. It keeps undulating through me, pulse after pulse of the most exquisite pleasure, and every time I think it’s ebbing away, it keeps coming back with renewed vigour.

“Ohhhh God… _Sherlock_ …”

I moan and pant, my voice getting hoarse, and at some point I’m afraid that I might lose consciousness. I feel like somebody has lit up fireworks in my lower body; everything’s hot and sparkling and insane, and it lasts _forever_.

“Oh _God!_ ”

Tears are running down my cheeks, but I’m not crying. I’m laughing, sobbing, spasming around his fingers until my body can’t take it anymore and tells me so by turning the next wave of pulsing heat into a sharp, stinging ray of pain.

“ _Stop_ ,” I gasp and he stills his hand immediately.

“Sorry,” he whispers breathlessly and pulls out slowly. “Sorry…”

He wipes his hands on the sheet and then moves up the bed to lie down beside me. His legs are shaking. Somewhere on the way he must have picked up his t-shirt from where he dropped it before, and he now uses it to clean me up a little.

When he’s finished, he carelessly lets it fall to the floor and puts his arm around me.

“It’s going to feel weird for a while,” he says.

He’s right. It hurt a little when his fingertips slipped out of me, and the phantom feeling of still being stretched burns inside my now empty opening. I lean my head against his shoulder and try to catch my breath. He puts his mouth in my hair and exhales against my scalp, causing a pleasant shudder to run through my still vibrating body.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, John,” he mumbles.

He kisses my temple, and only then do I notice that he’s lying cuddled up against my side, warm and comforting, his cock nestled against my thigh, soft and tender and slightly damp.

I lick my dry lips and cough, which makes him laugh.

“Did you…?” I ask, all of a sudden too self-conscious to spell it out.

He gives me one of his rare deep chuckles, and – like every time it happens – I think that it’s a sound he doesn’t make often enough.

“Yes,” he answers. “I did. You looked so wanton, so lost in your passion… I got carried away.”

_Oh Sherlock._

“Wish I could have seen it.”

“Love,” he says and brushes my jaw with his thumb. “There will be so many opportunities for you to see it…”

He draws me against himself in a languid kiss, and the feeling of his lips on mine and his tongue in my mouth slows down my already treacle-thick thoughts so much that at first his words don’t register with me at all.

_Love._

My heart jumps.

He sucks at my bottom lip and then pulls away to look at me again. He's blushing.

“Maybe I stop being me a  _little_  bit because we fuck,” he whispers and grins shyly.

I love him so much that it makes my chest ache.

Why did we waste so much time?

In his eyes, I can see that he knows, and that he feels the same regret.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper back. “I have to leave soon, so just kiss me again.”

He does.

\---

When I get back to the flat in the evening with an overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I find my chair back in its old spot and him huddled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

I tiptoe through the living-room and then just stand beside him, watching his back rise and fall softly with every breath he takes.

Sherlock.

I wonder if he’s slept at all in the last couple of weeks.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring, and next month, and next year.

I wonder if my daughter or son will accept the choice I’ve made.

After a while I turn around and make my way to the fireplace, where I sit down in my chair. It still smells of him. I let my palms glide over the worn fabric covering the armrests, sigh, and close my eyes.

I’ll wait here until he wakes up, and then we’ll go to bed.

Or solve a case.

Or make love again.

I nod off.

For the first time in three weeks, I dream of nothing at all.

 


End file.
